A Bit Part Surprise

A Bit Part Surprise

My iPhone reminds me I am scheduled to appear this very evening in a bit part of a play. I had entirely forgotten it. I’ve not gone to a single rehearsal and do not even have a script.

I arrive early at the Theater and join a small group of men and women waiting in the adjoining park. Perhaps they are patrons or even actors. Soon, a side door opens and I enter with the group. I follow them backstage where they start to prepare for the performance that evening. Some are having make-up applied; others are donning their costumes. My name is attached to one costume on a rack. A white shirt and tie, with a tweed suit coat and trench coat and gray fedora. The trench coat is padded to make me look quite rotund. I am now a dead ringer for Orson Welles who played the embodiment of evil in “Touch of Evil”. Except for my face that is. Fortunately, I have several days of stubble and the makeup man does the rest.

My worry now is what bit part am I to play. Everyone around me is speaking a different foreign language. So I start to look in bookcases and cupboards. At last, I find the script and it’s in French. I know no other French, but what I learned at my

grandmother’s knee and it was Quebecois. I thumb through the script, but not knowing my character’s name, I find nothing.

The “Places Everyone” call rings out. I station myself backstage near the curtain. I expect some cue as to how and when I should appear. By now, I don’t expect any speaking lines. The curtain soon rises and the play begins. I do not understand a single word of it. It’s evidently about goings-on in high society. The set is a lavish drawing room. A couple is expecting guests. The husband is dressed in a tuxedo. His wife in a formal gown. A maid in short uniform enters and the wife goes out. The husband can’t keep his hands off the maid. The wife enters and sees them, but retreats to greet guests who are arriving. The rest of the play is French farce, but I can’t figure out the plot.

Late in the last act after the guests have left, suspense builds as the wife catches the husband and maid on the dinner table. The maid runs out and the wife starts shouting at the husband. I catch a couple of slang swear words. The husband reaches in his tux and takes out a gun. He points it at his wife.

At this moment, I cannot contain myself. I step forward into the drawing room gun in hand. The audience erupts in laughter at the sight of me dressed as a seedy detective. I fire into the ceiling and yell out the only Quebecois phrase I remember, “Sacre Bleu”. The wife steps forward toward me with outstretched arms and says “Daaaarling.” The wayward husband falls to the floor in a dead faint. The shouts, laughter, and a few catcalls increase greatly. I take a bow before stagehands hook me backstage.

©  Sherman Poultney  12 March 2013

The Cat Man

Harold noticed a strange change in Richard. The two men were friends since Omaha Beach in WWII. Harold had dragged Richard to safety after Richard had his left hand shattered by a shell. Now old, they both joined the same retirement community. They had apartments across the hall from each other. Richard was a cat lover with a large gray cat named Shadow. The other man, Harold, had a lifelong aversion to cats ever since he was scared as a small boy by his grandmother’s cats. So scared that he never visited Richard’s apartment because of Shadow.

At dinner, the two began to discuss books that Richard was reading. They had previously talked about Shadow and how Richard admired the life of a cat. One evening, Richard showed particular interest in “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde”. Could one make or buy such a potion? Richard sounded like he actually wanted to find such a morphing potion. But why would Richard want to morph? The next evening, Richard asked about how George metamorphosed during the night into a beetle. Metamorphosed without any stated cause. He just woke up in the form of a beetle. Had he wished to change? Harold tried to calm Richard and tell him Kafka was just spinning a yarn. Several nights later, Richard told how he had just seen a film clip on YouTube in which Larry Talbot* turns into a wolf at the rising of a full moon right in front of the camera. Fur grew over his face. His canine incisors grew longer. His nails turned to claws. His hands grew fur. He jumped up and ran to break out a window. Harold began to worry about Richard’s sanity.

Richard’s red hair began to change to gray. His moustache grew whiskers like a cat. A gray beard appeared and stretched around his neck. Gray hair-like fur covered his right arm. His fingernails grew longer. His voice grew weaker and sounded at times like a purr. He began to walk softly as if on paws. Each foot placed carefully, one after the other. Maybe due to balance problems of old age, maybe not. At night, Harold heard sounds like two cats from Richard’s apartment. Richard began to obsess on the full moon that would occur on Halloween next.

Richard stopped going to meals. He had them delivered. Harold never saw him again. Harold knocked often, but Richard never answered the door. He called often, but only got a recorded message. Richard must have been OK because no one ever came to check on him. He evidently pressed the morning alarm each morning before 10am. Harold did not like snoopy busybodies, so he didn’t try to force the issue. Richard had a right to his self-isolation.

On Halloween eve about midnight, Harold heard loud noises coming from Richard’s apartment. Then quiet. Next day about noon, Security came to check because no morning alarm had been pressed. Harold entered the apartment with Security. No one was there. Richard was gone. Shadow was also missing. The balcony door was open. Cold air was blowing in. Harold stepped out onto the balcony. He looked down to the ground, one story below. A light early snow had fallen. A faint full moon was just setting. Harold saw large paw prints leading to the nearby woods. Searches of the woods and surrounding area found nothing. Richard had disappeared without a trace.

 Two weeks later by impulse, despite his fear of cats, Harold went on a group tour of a nearby Big Cat Refuge. One big cat came close to him as if it knew him. The big cat looked like Shadow, but larger. Maybe a wild cat from the Blue Ridge. The wild cat purred to him. Its whiskers looked like Richard’s. So did its blue eyes. The keeper told him that the wild cat had appeared on All Souls Day two weeks before. It was only then that Harold noticed that the wild cat was missing a left paw. Harold spoke kindly to the cat. The wild cat purred in response. Harold’s heart softened towards cats and he visited the wild cat every week.

 

 

© Sherman Poultney  12 February 2013

 

 

 

*Note: Larry Talbot is morphed into Wolfman in the film “Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein and the Wolfman.”. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kr9_dJ6TPPQ

 

MY LITTLE CHICKADEE.

Amy and her parents went to Grandmother's house for Thanksgiving dinner as usual. Grandmother now lived alone across town in her big house. After dinner, the grown-ups began to talk. Amy found herself at loose ends and lonely. She had gotten used to being alone, but she still wanted to find a special friend. She wandered through the familiar house and ended up on the enclosed back porch. The afternoon sun was streaming in. The porch was warm and cozy. She heard a rustling outside the big picture window. A young chickadee was settling into a sheltered corner of the window. She asked, "Why are you still here in November? Why aren't you with your brothers and sisters?" A small voice answered, "They've gone further south. I stayed. I like to be all on my own. I found this sheltered spot and decided it was for me. "But aren't you too young to be alone? Winter is coming," said Amy. "What is winter?", asked the young chickadee. "Winter is one of my best times of the year. It begins for me today, Thanksgiving. Then comes Christmas. And then the snow and the cold. Little chickadee, I'm afraid for you in the coming cold and snow". "What is Thanksgiving and Christmas?" asked the little chickadee. "They are times my family gathers and give thanks for our good life. At Christmas we give thanks for new life and we give each other gifts", replied Amy. "You remind me of my family. What is snow? I think I know what cold is", added the chickadee. "Cold comes on a strong north wind and freezes water." "How then will you drink? And how will you keep warm?", asked Amy. The little chickadee bravely said, "This warm spot here will protect me. I can leave to find food and return." "Good Luck", Amy said warmly, "I like you. I wish I could stay with you, but I must go back inside because it's time to leave." "Goodbye," said the chickadee, ~I like you, too. Enjoy Christmas!"
That Sunday a few days later at lunch, Amy's mother told Amy and her father how the Grandmother had decided to travel to stay with an ill sister over Christmas. She had closed up her house, but wanted Amy's father to check it periodically. Amy gasped, "We must check it immediately". "What's wrong", asked her father. "I'll tell you later. I must go right now." "Sit right there and finish your hot soup," interjected her mother. "I can't, it's a matter life or death". She ran to get her coat. Her father got his and they hurried out the door to the garage.
"Hurry, Dad, please hurry", Amy urged, "I hope it's not too late". They soon reached the darkened house and went in to the cold rooms. Amy ran to the back porch. The sun was streaming in and the porch was mildly warm. There in the corner outside was the little chickadee. She ran out to the backyard and reached up to the window. She felt the soft feathers. She cupped her hands around the small, seemingly lifeless form. "My friend, are you alive? Can you hear me?" she asked. No answer. Her father had by now followed her and finally realized what her concern was. The heat from her hands was now having an effect. The little chickadee stirred slightly. "It's me. I've come back to be with you", whispered Amy. "Thank you. I grew colder and colder. I thought I could stay warm here alone, but I couldn't. You were my only hope", said the chickadee weakly. "From now on you and I will be friends. I'm taking you home with me. Neither of us will be alone again", replied Amy. She walked to her father who welcomed her back with a big hug.

© S. K. Poultney 11 Dec 1988

THE WAITER.

I have watched one Mimi after another, one Rodolpho after another, come and go. For a season or two, they would shine brightly and be applauded after every aria. Then they would slip a little; a new wrinkle, a few extra pounds, a strained voice. It never took much for a newer idol to supplant them. How fleeting was fame for them. Yet I was always there. In my waiter's uniform, without speaking or singing, I carried on night after night, year after year. Each time a sterling performance.

Yet I am to be replaced. After forty years, I am to be replaced. I, who have held my part in La Boheme against all comers, must now go. My whole life was that part. I am that part. And now they say I must go.

I carried on in spite of everything. The occasional stubbornness of Musetta's poodles. The dinner plate that sometimes broke into a thousand pieces and at other times into none when she dropped it. The Bohemians blocking my path to a cafe table. All potentially disturbing, but turned by me instead to add to the opera. An extra laugh. Color. Movement. The audience would drink it all in without knowing.

They say I'm getting too old and slow for the part. Nonsense! Am I not even now in my top form? I have never missed a performance, never made a mistake. True, it does seem to get harder every year to pick up the pieces of Musetta's plate. And to get the Bohemians table set on time is getting more difficult. That “Hurry, hurry" of theirs is becoming annoying.

Worst of all, my talents were never fully recognized. The management took advantage of me with the low salary. The leads looked on me as a necessary nuisance; never realizing their own fleeting tenure. The chorus and other bit-players were even more transient than the leads and were never around long enough. It was just pocket money for them until a better job came along; like painting a house. The audiences always seemed oblivious to my presence. Even the children, the bright-eyed, laughing children outside the Cafe Momus, did not see me.

My only friend was Alcindoro. He came from nowhere one day and has stayed these last ten years. Once a month we meet after a performance and go to a small cafe downtown. A cafe just like the Cafe Momus, where we can sit and dream. That aging playboy now needs little make-up to play his part. He's the one who should be retired, not I. He has arthritis in his back and a perennial hoarseness. I could tell them. Neither of these troubles affect me. Why am I the one they're picking on?

No, I'm not bitter. The years have been good to me. In small ways, life's rewards have come to me. True, I have never gotten a single curtain call, much less a review. My life outside the theater is nothing but rented rooms, eating out, reading newspapers, and day-dreaming. Just thinking of my performances brings a smile to my lips and satisfaction to my heart. Right at the high point of Act 2, I stride to the center of the carefree Bohemians at Cafe Momus and present the bill. For that instant, my stern, haughty presence dominates the stage and the entire theater. I, who never speak or sing, prevail for those few glorious moments. Then, at the end of the Act, when Alcindoro returns to the Cafe for Musetta, I triumph once again. Finding the place empty, Alcindoro peers down the street looking for Musetta. At that moment, I stride out, bill in one hand, poodle in the other and wave the bill under his nose. As the curtain falls and Alcindoro collapses into a nearby chair, I stand supreme. Such satisfaction. Such dreams.

Do not think it amiss of me if I confide in you that I always make up early so that I can watch myself in the mirrors. I used to have a helper who made me up, but they took her away five years ago. I must make myself up now, but I do enjoy it so. I start with a good flesh-colored base and add brown to hollow my cheeks, forehead, and nose. Black accent lines create a permanently dour expression. Then comes some white to highlight the brown, red for the lips, and a final powdering of white. Why I could be a match for that world famous grandmaster of the mime, Marcel Marceau. My helper used to say that I had a very good face. And I've pushed the boulder up the hill with the best of them.

Little good all my effort does me now. After years of faithful, sterling performance and service, I'm being let go. The company is letting me go. They are moving to a new opera house and want new blood to help fill the seats. What do they really know, though? Didn't they sell the old house to the wreckers when they could have rented it at a profit to touring companies? Like two old workhorses with years of service, we are being turned out. The Met and me. Turned out for something new, untried, and certain to be of fleeting fame. They cannot take my dreams from me. From my bench in the park, I'll dream my triumphs. They're the ones who'll be sorry.

* * *
Note: Written the year of the new Metropolitan Opera House.

© S.K. Poultney 1967 and 1990

ODYSSEUS RETURNED: A TRAGEDY

ODYSSEUS RETURNED: A TRAGEDY


Often, even in the midst of one of his wild adventures, auburn-haired Odysseus would think back to sea-girt Ithaca. His huge frame would shudder at such times for he knew that one day his tired, old body and mind would force him to return to that narrow isle. No, it was not Penelope. Her beauty and talents challenged those of any of the maids or matrons that he had known in the hollow thigh of the night. The formidable Circe of the dazzling robes, beautiful-voiced Calypso with the lovely locks, the youthful, white-armed Nausicaa; Penelope rivalled them all. Yet each was new and different. A strange shore to gain and an unknown land to explore. Indeed, it was a pleasure to sojourn so; as long as the journey was later continued. So much easier to live a brief time with each than to live continuously with one. Had not even the Nymph Calypso ceased to please after a time?
It was certainly true that he did not really need Penelope. She was of no economic value. He and his men plundered for everything they desired whenever they desired. Her care was not needed. His cook, fool, and minstrel watched over him. Her companionship was not unique. He had his choice at each new landing. In fact, he did not care at all for the work or domestic cares that make for a fine family. He was much more interested in polished javelines, arrows, and ships with oars. As he found out, these were not the proper concerns of a family man. He loved brave crews, outwitting his foes, fighting, plundering countrysides, sacking cities, and magnifying his adventures in the tales he told. For these he had left home and would never return.
Home. It was not Penelope, but home that caused him to shudder. He had sailed the wide oceans of the world, dined with mighty kings in their great palaces, talked with
the wisest of sages, heard the most marvelous of minstrels, had seen multitudes of strange people and their exotic customs, had plundered vast riches, bested the world's best warriors and athletes, descended into Hades' own Halls, and had even vied with the gods themselves. What was there at Ithaca for him? Some old, worn-out warriors that had fought at his side at Ilium, an island of slaves working strenuously all day to eke out a living from the rocky soil of their narrow island, weak-kneed landowners who lived in continual fear of sea-raiders and refused to go with him to raid the Cephellanian kingdoms for rich plunder of cattle, sheepskins and rough wool instead of purple cloaks, goatskins and crude pottery instead of gold cups and silver basins, goat cheese and barley bread in place of sumptuous banquets, rough huts instead of palaces, and solemn, religious festivals only twice a year. What prospects were there for mighty Odysseus, the auburn-haired world-traveler?
Yet, after that last sea wreck, when the warring winds and crashing waves tore his dark ship to pieces, drowned his long-haired crew, swallowed him for near two days in their angry depths, and then had thrown him alone onto a rocky, barren shore, Odysseus, exhausted to his very soul, knew finally that he had to return home. He had grown too old. No longer could he hold his own against the world. His laughter of derision would no longer ring out at the weak of the world. He must fall back to that low place from which he so long had fought to free himself. That place where routine, prudence, and drudgery prevailed. All his craft seemed to have failed him in the end.
For the longest while he lay in the tidal pool that had claimed him from the sea. Life slowly came back to his swollen flesh and exhausted body. His raw lungs eased their gasping. He sat up and looked around. All about him in the pool were the reds, greens, and yellows of algae, Irish moss, and brachwort. There; a delicate white shell. Here; a clump of mussels and a lone dog welk. Down the coast, the great seas were battering the rockbound shore. The thunder of the surf rolled rythmically over his ears. The land was veiled in spray. Out over the white-capped breakers, a lone, wild sea-hawk drenched the feathers of its wings as it pursued its prey in the rich, unharvested, fish-filled sea. But Odysseus saw only the white home of the barnacle. Was this what he had to look forward to? The precarious life of a barnacle. Chained to live at one spot, afraid to venture out, utterly dependent on the kind chances of froward mother nature, and hoarding his last bits of energy and youth against an uncertain future. His proud, stubbom spirit still shone faintly; but flickered now and then as if to go completely out.
He knew not how, exactly, but he managed to gain a copse of trees above the shore where he fell asleep in a deep bed of leaves. The next morning he found a small bark in a nearby cove and set sail for home. With his steering oar, he kept a straight course during the day. At night his eyes never closed for he kept the Great Bear on his left to maintain his steady course. After many days, he hove into sight of the high mountains of a familiar land. From there he inched his way south along the coast toward home. One day, he passed wooded Zacynthus and knew he was not far from Ithaca. In the strait between Samos and Ithaca by rocky Asteris, he began to dream. Those nineteen years away, Telemachus, Penelope's welcome, new sons to stand at his side when others failed him. Then to the west toward evening, Ithaca was before him. Columns of smoke rose into the clear skies above the town. Many boats were still plying about the port. The hills above were silhouetted by that monstrous, red, setting ball-of-fire beyond. The wooded peak of windswept Neriton stood out above all the others. The sky turned blood-red as though a sign of things to come. Odysseus blinked his weary eyes. There above the town was a magnificent palace. "What has happened?", he thought. From the shore came the bustle of people making their way home and sailors securing their sails. Bits of music drifted out to him. In the dying light, he saw that the town had grown tremendously in size. The buildings were freshly whitened. Their roofs were new.
Dauntless Odysseus became confused. This was not the Ithaca that he knew. What would he find when he landed? Then his sly wits came back to him. It would be far better to land secretly and spy out the situation. He leaned on the steering oar and tightened the main sheet so that his white sail grew taut, turned, and headed straight for the cove of Phorcys, the Old Man of the Sea. He beached his small boat there just as dusk turned to night. Seeking out the vaulted-roof shrine sacred to the Nymphs, he made a supper of the week-old offering he found there. That night he slept in the nearby cave. Eerie night sounds added to his discomfort as he tossed and turned; worrying about plans for the next day. All too soon, Aurora raised her gentle hands and touched the East with pink. The cries of birds awakened Odysseus very early. He arose and looked around. All seemed so familiar: the still cove, the ancient shrine, and, above him, the forest-clad slopes of Mount Neriton.
"Why," he thought, "my faithful steward Eumaeus lived not far from here. I will go there in disguise as I did at Troy, beg for food, and find out what has happened during these past nineteen years if he still lives." Thus saying, he turned his back on the cove and followed a rough path through the hills toward Eumaeus' hut. He passed the pastures at Raven's Crag and the Spring of Arethusa where he stopped to drink. A short while later he found Eumaeus sitting in front of his homestead. The farmhouse stood on a small eminence in a clearing and was surrounded by a rude, wooden fence. The baying of fierce watchdogs heralded his approach. Eumaeus raised himself with a cane and quieted the dogs. He looked at the ragged Odysseus and asked, "What do you want with me, beggar?" "I have come upon bad times and have been left on the shore by pirates. Please help me." "Come then and breakfast. Afterwards, you can tell me more of your tale. It gets so lonely out here in the woods."
Odysseus gathered his few rags about him and entered the hut of Eumaeus. After a hearty meal, he leaned back and began. He told Eumaeus that he was a Cretan nobleman who had been kidnapped by pirates from the north. They had killed his loving wife and stalwart sons and had kept him prisoner for five years. But, now that he was old and sick, they had left him on the shore of this unknown island. Thus saying, he grew silent and waited for Eumaeus to speak. He thought it best to let the old man talk as much as possible so as not to raise his curiousity by forward questions. Eumaeus spoke, ''You unlucky man. Yet you could have landed in a far worse place. It is not often that pirates sail near here any more. In the old days, we were pirates ourselves. My master was one of the fiercest and craftiest. One day he sailed off to Ilium to rescue red-haired Menelaus' fair Helen and never returned. He left a beautiful young wife with a baby son at her breast.
"Oh, if only my wife and children still lived," said Odysseus, "I could return to live with them. I cared for them so much. There is no greater reward in life for two who see eye-to-eye than keeping house as man and wife and raising a family. Does Odysseus' wife still live?" "Yes, more lovely than ever. They say she patiently waits his return; turning down all suitors and weaving rich robes." "Did the boy live?" asked Odysseus. "Yes," replied Eumaeus, "he has grown to handsome manhood. For a whole year now he has been in Mycenae learning the arts of war, commerce, and government from the sages who sit there. He grew into a modest youth of good sense and faultless rhetoric. They say he soon will return to put on the crown and rule by his own decree." "Lucky the man that can return to such a family. The Fates have been kind," said Odysseus. "Yes, in a way," replied Eumaeus. "Yet, the disappearance of Odysseus caused great mourning on the island. Many wives lost their brave husbands. A good many people came to view Odysseus as being derelict in his duty. He had left Ithaca without a king to go adventuring in a distant quarrel, he did not bring his men safely back home, and he continued his adventures long after he should have returned home. His whole escapade was a dereliction of duty; to country, people, and family. His mother, Anticleia, died of a broken heart waiting for her son's sail to appear. His father, Laertes, suffering under the terrible loss, withdrew to his farm. There, as old-age takes its toll, he lives like a servant in the dust waiting for his erring son.
"Odysseus was sorely missed, then." "At first by a few," replied Eumaeus, "but not for long. Times change. We found ourselves on a trade-route between Mycenae, Cephellanea, and their colonies in Italy. We found it more rewarding to tax goods in transit than to plunder. Penelope proved a wise queen. Her police keep the trade route free of pirates. We have grown rich through her foresight and planning. The port has tripled in size. The buildings are new. Our queen has built a splendid palace. She always gets her way." "And yet she has not married again?" interrupted Odysseus. "No," replied Eumaeus. "Many rich suitors came; princes, rich merchants, owners of fleets, but Penelope still waits for the return of
Odysseus they say . . . . But I must bore you. Take this old tunic and cloak to cover your rags. You should be able to find work in the port ahead. Follow the wide path to the !eft. Good day.''
"Good day, worthy swineherd, and thank you," said Odysseus as he rose, put on the worn clothes, and left the farm. As he trudged toward town, the words of Eumaeus weighed heavily upon him. He felt like a relic of the past; a fossil of a bygone age. Yet, he was known as the craftiest man alive as well as being known for his piratical prowess. In addition, his wife waited for him. She, who had held his crown, raised his son, built a flourishing city, commanded a huge fleet, waited and would welcome him back as king. His son would stand at his side. All would turn out well he thought. "
Odysseus headed first for town. He had to see all these new wonders for himself and he was particularly curious about how the people felt. The town had grown indeed. The buildings were new. The people were well- dressed; their backs straightened considerably since their farming days. They even looked their former landlords right in the eye. Odysseus tread cautiously and listened quietly. He would probably not be recognized, but would take no chances. He was afraid his wife's suitors might want to have him assasinated. It soon became clear that no one gave a thought to his possible return nor much less cared. Penelope was the one who was popular with the people.
That night he stayed in a small, dirty tavern. After eating a stale crust and drinking some sour goatsmilk, he retired early to mull over the situation. He pieced the picture together. The island had indeed been on a flourishing trade route. Gentle Penelope had seized on the opportunity under the advice of the wide-ranging trader Menelaus of Lacedaemon. Using great foresight, she had built up a new system of government. Her judges brought justice to the land. Her police gave peace to the people and safety to trading ships. Her fleets brought back great riches. Her artisans built new buildings and palaces. Her artists composed new lays and stories. Ithaca had flowered. All that Eumaeus had said was true. Wise Penelope had risen to new wealth and power, but still lived alone waiting for her long-lost Odysseus; weaving a great winding-sheet for his ailing father while suitors came and went. So the townspeople spoke and Odysseus thought.
Lost in the black night of his thoughts, Odysseus was soon conquered by sleep. The royal Odysseus lay in the dirty straw of the common room. All that night great dreams filled his head. He saw himself approach the palace in his rags and slip in by way of the kitchens. From there, he spied out the many suitors waiting for Penelope's answer; biding their time at his banquet table and consuming his wealth. He saw his wife in her small chamber weaving her web on the looms hung about her. Then he revealed himself to his son. Side by side they stood, spear poised, bow turned from its honorable use to slaughter the avaricious suitors. The great banquet hall
turned as blood-red as the sinking sun had that very evening. With a bound, Odysseus gained his wife's chamber. Her arms opened to we]come him. Next morning he would don her finest work, mount his throne for audience with the town elders, and then order a feast to begin.
Right at the height of these splendid dreams, he was rudely awakened. The sun was up and the town stirred. He left the tavern and started toward the palace. His mind still swarmed with the visions. On the way, he passed a rich train descending. He qathered that some prince had been turned down in his suit. He raised his fist to the heavens and laughed. Upon reaching the palace, he went straight to the kitchens and sought entrance. The head steward looked at him and laughed. Abuse upon abuse was heaped up; his appearance, his age, until suddenly he could no longer stand it, "Silence," he shouted. "I am Odysseus returned." The steward immediately called the bur]y palace guards who seized Odysseus and bound him securely. Their captain, Medon, locked him in a waiting gaol.
Soon thereafter, the Captain appeared with a feeble, ancient man who could barely stand. "Father," cried Odysseus. "My son," whispered Laertes. "You have returned. Things are no longer the same. Yet I will not betray you." In a loud voice he said, "No, it is not he. Why bother me everytime a new beggar comes to town" Thus saying, he turned and was led off. Medon then brought in an ancient woman whom Odysseus recognized to be his wife's nurse, Dolius. The old women eyed him closely and muttered, "It could be him. Hold him while I check his right knee for the old hunting scar his nurse, Eurycleia,
once told me about. Yes, it is Odysseus. You'd better let Penelope know at once." Medon sent a messenger directly to the queen. "Odysseus has returned and is secured."
Odysseus waited. What had his father meant? Why was he being so badly treated? At mid-day Penelope came. More beautiful than ever, she had grown to magnificant womanhood since he had left her as a girl-bride. He opened his arms for her, but she did not move. "I thought you would grow tired one day and come home. Well, here you are. Listen to me. You left home to please yourself in wandering and adventuring. Oh how the world jumped at your whim. During your travels, I civilized this island. I need not relate all that I have done for you must have already heard and have come back to profit by it. I owe you nothing save to repay you for leaving me and my new-born son."
"Listen to me," the indomitable Odysseus raised his hand to silence her. "I will not listen to your wily speeches. My heart is hardened. I will tolerate you here as long as you remain silent and disciplined. Stay here and I will feed you. Above all, you must never speak to Telemachus who knows nothing of you. He thinks you long since dead. Last year before he left for school, we built a huge burial mound in your honor and for your deeds at Troy. This very moment he studies in Mycenae to be able to mount the throne you could never sit still on. When he is of age to rule next Spring, I shall abdicate. I have spoken. He shall never know more of you or of the unruly passions that moved you. If you refuse my offer, you must banish yourself from Ithaca forever."
The veins bulged out on Odysseus' mighty neck as he let out a monstrous roar, "You can't do this to me." "I have," replied Penelope. "You will be kept locked up until you decide to stay in silence or leave forever.""Reconsider, Penelope. Where has all your feeling and passion gone? You are more truly Persephone, the Dread, than a human being despite all your vaunted civilization. Don't you remember the times we played on the shore by the sea, or frolicked in the meadows, or slept together in our large bed-stead? Don't you realize what you've lost to reason and prudence?" Odysseus looked at Penelope. She had not heard him. "You are determined to have your way. Pray, then, a favor. While I sit here deciding, send my old minstrel Phemius to sing to me and my faithful dog Argus to sit by me." Penelope had turned to go, but looked back at the wreck of Odysseus, sighed, and assented. "Phemius is dead, but the blind Demodocus from grief-stricken Phaeacia visits here. I will send him to you. As for Argus, he can barely crawl. You are welcome to him."
For two weeks Odysseus pondered as the blind Demodocus played his tuneful lyre and sang of Troy. Trust Odysseus to get free. He always finds a way. Odysseus willingly told of his many other adventures around the great sea. The minstrel sang new songs of these adventures, while Odysseus debated the alternatives. To live as a tamed animal, never. To live without speaking to my own son, never. To grow old and decay as Laertes has on the farm, never. Yet, he saw no way to regain his power. Even worse, he had not the strength to start a new life in exile. He slowly saw what he must do. He gravely charged Demodocus to flee to Mycenae where he should sing of the adventures of Odysseus. The love and pleasure of life must not die at the hands of the new civilization. The blind minstrel agreed and fled. Odysseus waited two more weeks and then called for Penelope.
When she appeared, he told her he would live in silence at the palace. She agreed and assigned him a suite, servants, and an ever-watchful bodyguard. In the months that followed, he slowly wilted in his pain. Finally, the time came. The very first Spring day, he slipped from the palace. With Argus at his side, he made straight-way for the grave-yard of his ancestors where his own mound sat. It was time. There, within the burial circle of his ancestors, he knelt with head bowed while the warm spray covered him. He raised his dagger and, with a quick motion, slit his own throat. He fell face forward to the ground amidst the green tendrils breaking the surface. He grew slowly weaker. The sky dimmed. The calling birds grew faint. Odysseus had begun his final journey. The bloodied barrows opened and the bleached arms of his ancestors welcomed him to Hades' Halls. Aged Argus struggled to his feet to follow and fell dead across his master's back. At the same moment, Laertes fell beneath his vineyards never to rise again
The warm rains brought life to the thrice-plowed fallow fields. Across the sea, Telemachus felt Spring's power within and thought of the crown and bride awaiting him when he returned to his kingdom in Ithaca. The blood rushed to his head. Yet, turning his face to the cooling breeze, he calmed himself. He could wait. The rewards would come.
From high Olympus, Zeus looked down, saw that all was well, and smiled.


THE END




© Sherman K. Poultney 1967 and 1984
Calvert Review 1967